


Back to Highpoint

by indi_indecisive



Category: Game of Thrones (Video Game 2014)
Genre: Child Abuse, Father-Son Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Horseback Riding, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mother-Son Relationship, Past Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, Reading, Suicidal Thoughts, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 22:52:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7126516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indi_indecisive/pseuds/indi_indecisive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ebbert found little joy in many things. There was little joy in star gazing or the midnight picnics taken alone, a habit that he could not seem to shake. There had once been the thought to invite his siblings; Torrhen had left, Karl was busy, and Gwyn could not function with the lack of sleep. He continued to go alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back to Highpoint

**Author's Note:**

> While this is not incredibly graphic, it does contain suicidal thoughts, and mentions of abuse.

Ebbert was not the farthest thing from a skilled rider, he was not terrible, but he was not good at it. His skills had not branched to riding; his hands always became clammy when he held onto the reins, knuckles turning white as his grip tightened in order combat the moistness of his palms. Riding brought back the memory where he had once fallen to the side of his horse. Apparently his saddle had not been properly secured, Ebbert did not know if it had been a mistake on his part or if he had become the victim to a cruel, dangerous joke. The incident had been terrifying. The pounding of the horses hooves had blocked out any other possible sound, he could not hear his heart beat wildly in his chest, or even his own screaming for anyone to help him as he slipped closer and closer to the ground. At some point he had resigned himself to injury, that he would eventually fall to the ground and get dragged along as his foot had become stuck somewhere in the mess of panic.

If Torrhen had not stopped the horse … Ebbert did not want to focus on what could have happened if his younger brother had not responded to his desperate pleas for help. He had heard of other accidents, of the injuries the unfortunate had obtained; he could have been maimed, mayhaps even become crippled. If crippled then, he would have thought to have taken his life; Ludd did not need more reason to hate him.

Though the day had been long, long ago it had never been left to fester in the farthest corner of his mind. It was the single fuel to his aversion to riding for long periods of time alone, his lack of riding skill the more acceptable to use as excuse. It was a shame, enough so that he was disgusted with himself for not ignoring it. The arbitrary fear of riding alone had created a long period of absence from the glade. How long had it been? If he was corrected, and he had watched the night sky long enough to not doubt his answer, it had been one moon turn exactly. He had watched the skies with the hope that it would be the same as before, that the feeling of emptiness would not settle into his heart. Each time it settled, yet he kept returning to the place he had once enjoyed; just as he continued to willingly walk to his father, to let himself be subjected to torment that made him beg for relief.

He found little joy in many things. There was little joy in star gazing or the midnight picnics taken alone, a habit that he could not seem to shake. There had once been the thought to invite his siblings; Torrhen had left, Karl was busy, and Gwyn could not function with the lack of sleep. He continued to go alone.

The journey to the glade when taken on horseback was not as long as it would have been if he walked, and it was not the longest ride that he could have taken. Wind whipped against his face, he leaned forward in an attempt to shield himself from the wind by the horse. Squinting in the darkness, the light that slipped between tree branches provided little light; t’was not the safest activity that Ebbert could be doing. He could hardly distinguish the chestnut coat of the horse beneath him with the worn leather reins, everything ‘borrowed’ from the stables. Ludd saw little purpose in letting Ebbert have his own horse, let alone a pet; as he had not ‘earned’ it. Ebbert was not a warrior nor was he a rider, it seemed he was everything that his father despised. To him, he did not deserve a horse as equally as he did not deserve dinner some nights. The words were mocking, loud in his head, it was impossible to focus on anything. The lips of his father seemed to push away his focus on the direction of the glade, Ebbert would have admitted to knowing the route by heart, but the desperation in pushing his father’s voice out of his head pulled his focus to what he knew. Taking a breath, cold air stung his throat, the smell of horse overwhelming in his nostrils.

That was something better to focus on, the scent of the beast beneath him, the movement of his body as he was careful to not fall off. Knuckles turning white as he clenched the reins with the grip of dead man in rigor mortis.

A harsh reality was lost as he brought the horse into a gentle trot, barely remembering the action. Straightening on the saddle, realization dawned that he had not once checked to make sure that his satchel had stayed to his hip. Panic gripped his chest, finding himself unable to breath no matter how silently desperate he begged for breath. The world became a dizzied mess of trees enveloped in darkness, an eternity passed before his hand released the reins and fell to his side. The fear subsided after moments touching the uneven, somewhat irregular yet pleasantly warm to the touch satchel at his side. It had been a gift by Arthur Glenmore, an item that Ebbert refused to let be taken from him. It was lumpy from the items that he had carefully packed away, assuring himself that both the satchel and items were safe.

Squinting back to the night around him, he watched the horses ears twitch to the sounds of swaying branches and his own breathing. Though he could not exactly see, he was near the path to the glade. It would have been better to leave only a few hours before dawn, rather than the deadest part of the night; but there had been an aching fear that someone would notice his absence and question it. It was not the first time he had snuck away in the later hours, finding himself sleeping later hours of the day. This trip was different. Pulling slightly on the reins, signally for the horse to stop, a silent prayer left his lips when the creature did as he wanted. Quickly slipping off the horse he stumbled, catching himself moments before crashing to the ground. The horse nickered, and Ebbert restrained himself from shooting a glare to the beast as he lead it to a nearby tree with a branch both low and thick enough to tie the horse to. Fingers worked quickly and methodically, not wanting for the horse to run off because it had become spooked. Abandonment was not what he needed.

Once the horse had been secured, he tugged the reins to make sure they would say. They did. He began walking slowly, letting his hand brush against the hard bark of the trees that were within his reach as he walked across the flattening path. Flat from the many trips that had come before this one. The grass flattened, trampled and refusing to grow where the Whitehills had walked. He almost laughed at the barrenness and the comparison to Highpoint, but it was far too saddening. Instead of a chuckle, a tight frown formed along his lips, hands back to his body. A body that was too skinny, when the skin was pinched there seemed to hardly be a lick of fat; not like his father. He despised it, it was his fault that he fell into another period of lack-of-eating; he could not bring himself to swallow most things, his stomach becoming uneasy and threatening to empty the contents of his stomach. There had been a few times he had retreated to his quarters from dinner, promptly vomiting by an unwanted impulse. Eyes fluttered closed, it made no difference in the darkness, and he continued to follow along the path.

Almost surprisingly came the feeling of openness. Tree’s slowly began parting, until Ebbert stepped into the glade. Eyes fluttered open, and even in the darkness he could make out the familiar sights. Sights that he adored, that brought both crippling pain and a sense of boyish giddiness. There was the silhouette of the rocks the children had once sat upon, approaching slowly to the spot that he could not bring himself to rest on. Reaching out he was hesitant to touch, as if he would be smacked for doing so. Breath hitched, his fingers were hardly an inch from the surface before he pulled away.

He could not. 

Then his gaze fell to the most important piece of the glade, the reason that he had braved the action of horse riding in darkness. Adjusting the strap of his satchel, he had almost forgotten that the piece was there, his entire attention pulled to the Ironwood tree. It was a beautiful tree. Short and fat, nothing like the tree;s that towered in the Forrester’s lands; beautiful to Ebbert nonetheless. It’s roots were like severed limbs reaching skyward, hands had violently clawed their way and parted the dirt. If Ebbert were to move closer, would one grab him and drag him beneath the ground? He thought he would not have minded, to let dirt replace the air within his lungs and let his life know nothing of the sun any longer. Squatting, he removed the bag from his body and sat it down beside him. This tree he could touch. He did not fear it anymore, reaching out to peel back the moss that had begun to stretch itself in an attempt to cover the abandoned den, the gaping hole filled with offerings. Pulling back moss with the utmost respect, he did not want to rip it more than he had too, rather folding it back onto the gnarled roots. It was such a strange moss, bending to his will far easier than the moss near Highpoint; he liked to believe that it was his mother’s doing. That she made the moss an accessory for the tree.

“Mother.”

It had been too long since he had uttered the word. There was a whine in his tone, a yearning to hear a response, to hear his name fall from her tongue in that calming voice. Often times he did not speak when he came to the glade after her death for he did not always need to speak to be comfortable with his mother. This tree was not his mother, but it was one of the few remaining pieces to remind him of her. This piece enjoyed the silence. Folding cloak underneath his behind to avoid a layer of mud to coat it, he sat down and crossed his legs. Fingers worked quickly to open the satchel, removing a tallow candle. It took less than a moment to find two roots far enough to slip the candle between, making sure it was balanced and snug. Squinting in the darkness, there was a breath of relief when fingers curled around the starter, lighting the candle quickly. The candle illuminated a small area, but it was enough.

It would have always been enough for Ebbert. 

Fidgeting, he wiggled against the ground for an end goal of a more comfortable position. His gaze fell to the dark hole, the candles light not even reaching the entrance where countless letters and gifts had been passed through. An nagging urge arouse, loud in his ear, whispering for him to crawl into the hole and to never leave. To let the earth hold him safely, to close his eyes and forget about the world that was adamant in taking all forms of happiness. It had not, at least not yet, and the invasive thought was pushed aside in favor of a smile dancing across his lips over the content of the letters he had written. Many of the letters sought his mother’s advice, though he had never received a single answer for the issues that had presented themselves. At least, nothing proper. There were little things that had occurred, things that he could not entirely stop his heart from believing that she had been somehow involved. If she had lived, she would have helped him with the things he had written to her in secret; if it had not killed her.

Shaking his head in attempt to rid himself of the memories, he reached into the bag and removed a piece of honey cake that was wrapped in cloth. Following it was a book. With one hand occupied with the slice of cake, the other set the book on his lap and flipped the pages until he found the one with the corner folded over. The candles light wavered, and Ebbert squinted to see the words. Hunching forward, he unfolded the corner piece, taking a bite of the cake he began to read. The book was over medicine. It was not long before the cake was finished, nothing but crumbs clinging to the cloth and the corner of Ebbert’s lips to prove it’s existence, and his mind had slipped to the content of the book.

Time passed by quickly, the candle became less than half of what it once was, and so the light it provided was little. Flickering, almost dead, there was not enough light for him to read any longer. His eyes stung. Closing the book, a tired gaze slid to the trunk of the tree. “I am sorry, mother.” It was an apology he had failed to speak before her absence, one that fell quickly off his tongue as he put the book back into the satchel. Any attempt at another sentence was interrupted by a yawn, a hand shooting up to cover his mouth. It was the worst time to feel tired.

“I did not have much to speak about tonight.” Finding the words, it felt uniquely strange to be as honest. Hoping that he did not forget the feeling, that he did not have to continue withholding or lying. “I was just very happy to read here again. To have another picnic with you, though there is not as much food as before. There are things that I can say, words spread like the wind, mother. I– you will not judge me, I know.” You never did. “Do you remember the Glenmores? One of them, Arthur Glenmore, the one that I wrote in my letters … I wonder if he likes picnics. There are times when I think to ask, but there is a way about him that makes me lose my words.” He waited as if there was going to be an answer before continuing. “He’s— he’s everything a man should be, skilled in what is valued more I suppose. I am often unsure how he is able to handle my company, I try not to dwell on the thought. I suppose he sees the you in me.”

“He’s a lovely distraction from the North. He is lovely.”

Once more his words were graciously greeted by the silence of the natural word. Slipping the satchel back on, he adjusted the leather strap on his shoulder. Looking at the candle’s dying light, he frowned at the melted wax that had dripped over the gnarled roots; a stark contrast against the bleakness of everything. “I will write to him when I return to Highpoint. For you.”

He blew out the candle, the night enveloping him once again as he made his way back to the horse. From there, back to Highpoint.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out peggyoung.tumblr.com and badgershite.tumblr.com  
> They're good people.


End file.
